Page 2 of Hide Me Darling

Another week, another victim… this one was even pretty, too. Blonde hair and sweet smile. Just enough loneliness in her eyes that you could see she had no one just by looking at her.

She rolled into town on the tourist bus just like all the others, with a bag big enough to see she wasn’t completely homeless. But then, anyone who can get a ticket out here generally isn’t at the time they board the one-way trip. I saw her looking for a job, but the help wanted signs are few and far between here.

The way her body lay out on the street, the blood glistening in the moonlight. It made it look like the stars in the sky were part of her and not light years away.

She was captivating, mesmerizing. The wounds she endured only added to her beauty, telling a story no one will ever know.

What do you think, readers? Do you think she cried? That she screamed and wished she had never come to this town as her blood spilled on its pretty streets? I’ll keep those answers to myself for now until that special someone finds me.

And I know they will find me. I’m not really hiding. This town calls to the best of us. It’s pretty on the outside, but it’s rotten to the core. After all, some of the best villains wear a mask.

Until next time readers…

X X X X

The screen of the tablet in my hands casts a bright light in the dim room. Narrowing my eyes, I read through the blog post again. Nothing in it gives away any details of who the writer could be or the town itself. All the little details that I need are missing. But what has me paying closer attention is the fact that this isn’t the first death they have reported on and based on the timing between each, I don’t think it will be the last.

Clicking through, I look at some of the other stories this same person has written. All very similar to one another with just enough detail to know exactly what was happening, but not enough detail to know who or where.

The weirdest part is, I can relate to each word they write, as if we were connected somehow. Which terrifies me, why would I feel connected to someone who from what I can tell takes innocent lives. Do I understand them because it’s my job to hunt down these types of people, or is it something deeper? Something I don’t want to discover about myself yet?

Sighing, I look up at the wall of my office. There are images of victims and criminals, crime reports and news articles, then all kinds of notes pinned to it, covering most available spaces.

Murders and murderers I investigated recently, my most recent case coming to an end only today. I have been on the city police force for years now; I worked my way to being a detective, and as much as I wanted to join the FBI like my mother before me, my parents felt it would be more beneficial for their organization if I stayed on the force instead. So, like the good daughter I am, I obeyed.

But it feels like a never ending cycle of death and disappointment. As much as I help the organization take care of the criminals and killers that slip through the system, I also see it when the system fails the innocent more visibly being on the force. I see the abused and the dead first hand. The fury at the perpetrators burns within me each and every day, only for me to be constrained by bureaucratic bullshit.

Justice isn’t really justice, and I think that’s what hurts the most. That is what has me wanting to break the chains I hold on my darkness and set it free. I want it to be real and I want to be the one to deliver it.

Most of the time though, I sit in the background while my mother and fathers take the lead. All too often I supply the information to them, and another team is sent in. I don’t even get to see retribution served. But the families I talked to in order to find the truth, they never seem satisfied by the ending. The scales of justice inside me feel off balance. Lately, it’s as if I’m going to break from all the death and darkness that outweighs everything else in my life.

If only I could live in the world my sister lives in, one where she ignores it all. I know she isn’t happy like that, but even the ability to pretend might help the chaos in my mind not feel so overwhelming.

My sister and I have never been strangers to the evils of this world. Even when we were young we would see images of crime scenes pinned to walls. It was part of life. Initially, our parents had tried to shield us, but they then decided we needed to know the reality of the world.

I remember the first time I saw those images. The blood, the violence, the senselessness of it all. It shook me to my core. But instead of turning away, I found myself drawn to it. Not out of morbid curiosity, but out of a need to understand, to find a way to bring some semblance of justice to the chaos.

As I stare at the wall now, I can feel the weight of all those lives, all those stories. Each photo, each report, is a life touched by darkness. A life that, in some way, mirrors my own internal struggle. The thought is both sobering and motivating.

I look back at the tablet while trying to piece together this puzzle. I can tell their lack of details is a way to protect themselves, but it also means the mystery remains shrouded in shadows that urges me to shine a light on it.

Quickly, I realize I have two choices: I could ignore what I have found and pass it off as someone with an overactive imagination, concentrating instead on the immediate cases before me from my work as a detective. Or I can dive deeper into this mystery, hoping to uncover something that could prevent more tragedies and maybe help find that real sense of justice my mother always seems to find when she wraps up a case.

I could help these people. Really help them and maybe for once ensure real justice was given to these victims.

Choosing the latter feels right, despite the exhaustion that tugs at me.

So even when my eyes threaten to fall closed, I begin to compile the information from the blog. Everything I can find myself which, as it turns out, isn’t much. It’s tedious and meticulous work, but it’s the kind of work that has always brought me a sense of purpose. Putting everything I have gathered into a secure email, I send it to my parents as well as my Uncle Max.

Since before I was born, my parents, along with their friends, have run an organization that targets corruption and those who take innocent lives. Uncle Max isn’t actually our uncle, but another one of their friends, and an IT genius. If anyone can find details that I haven’t been able to find, it will be him.

With not being able to tell where the blog is coming from, I can’t even check to see if the local law enforcement are looking into this or just how large the case is. Are these all murders by the same person, a serial killer, or are they just different incidents in a corrupt town the blog writer mentions?

It could already be something on the radar of the local police, and if it is, that's great. They can solve the mystery. And if not, then my parents can send a team out there to deal with it.

Checking the time, I see that it's almost midnight. My limbs feel heavy from how hard the last few days have been. The case I just finished had me chasing down a sadistic asshole by the name of Eddie Sawyer. The case should have been simple, once we identified him as the lead suspect, it should have been cut and dry. But then he decided to try and run. It took us two days of twenty four hour work to track him down.

When I found him in an alley after a local butcher shop told us his whereabouts, I was fuming. A part of me was happy when he decided to try to attack me with a butcher knife. Shooting him probably shouldn't have given me the thrill that it did, but I haven't claimed to be normal for a long time. It was strange how the anger and frustrations that just seemed to build and build over the duration of the case began to bleed from me as efficiently as his chest wound bled for him.

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